What Once Was Lost
by Sresla
Summary: She didn't have a name anymore. But the plan she set in motion when her name still meant "To Solve" had unforeseen consequences. Now her past is her present - one she can't escape.


An arm snaked out of the darkness and grasped her securely around the waist, preventing a clumsy – or even fatal – fall down the narrow staircase when she stumbled. She gasped out her thanks even as her rescuer said, "You must be so _tired_, my dear – but it is onwards and upwards, hmm?"

Tallis was tired, though not in the way the man meant it. Tonight, as it often did, the fetid oppressiveness of the elves' meager billet in the Keep's underbuilding drove her to climb the twisted helix of seventy-six steps to the top of one of the corner battlements to escape it. She attributed her pervasive lassitude to the living conditions: dozens of elves packed into a small space, night after night bedding down on the filthy rushes which covered the floor. Not one voice ever raised in complaint.

Night after night, it became a ritual. She walked by bored guards who asked her perfunctory questions about her destination while not really caring about the answers she gave. The stolen freedom never changed how she felt; she was unable to recapture the centering influence of the triumvirate here in Val Foret. She wanted to go home.

The stranger, whose voice she didn't recognize, escorted her gently up the last stone spiral, his arm bracing her securely from behind. She tried to gather her thoughts which were scattered from the sudden fright. She hadn't heard him coming up behind her – had she? Did the whisper of sound cause her misstep? Her concerns hovered vaguely in the back of her mind, pushed aside by the dark walls which seemed to close in on her as they reached the top. '_Let me out, let me out, let me out!_'

He released her and she rested against the masonry, pressing her cheek against the rock. Its coolness calmed her shivering. Tallis listened as, with a muffled grunt, he applied his strength to the hatch which swung up and open with a wooden bang. Dim light and welcome, crisp air flooded the stairwell and she saw the man's profile, although not in detail. An elf – his bone structure marking him as foreign, if his lilting accent wasn't enough of a clue – and not dressed like a servant. Garbed in leather, his musky scent, a blend of animal hides, beeswax and sweat, soothed her jangling nerves.

"Shall we?"

She grasped his proffered hand and allowed him to solicitously shepherd her through the opening.

They ascended and once aloft, he released her and opened his arms as if to embrace the night sky. Tallis staggered and sagged limply against the parapet. She was beginning to sweat. "Ah, the view is quite marvelous – and there, do you see?" He stabbed a finger at a roughly horizontal cluster of three stars. "They form a belt. I have never been clear what – if anything – it attaches _to_. I must try and remember to inquire."

His back to her, the elf turned around now to face her. Were it not for his pointed ears, he might have passed for human; what elven characteristics he did retain lent him an exotic beauty. '_Not Fereldan, the accent is wrong._' She easily ruled out the Free Marches and Orlais, although Orlesian elves more closely resembled their attractive Fereldan cousins than those homely souls from the rugged Free Marches. '_Further north, then._' His dusky complexion and the sinuously curved tattoos on his cheek… '_A slave brand? Tevinter? Rivani maybe?_' His features tickled her memory, feather-light.

He smiled wryly at her silent scrutiny. "Were our positions reversed, after such an immodest appraisal I might be concerned for the state of my virtue. So it is just as well I am not the one who has been poisoned."

She blanched as his casual pronouncement penetrated the hazy fog which enveloped her thoughts. The unexplained fatigue and muddled wits were symptoms; her hand fluttered uselessly to her throat. "Antidote?" Tallis croaked, her mouth suddenly dry from fear.

"Poisoned is too harsh a word, true though it is. Let us say instead… debilitated? After all, my dear, if I wished to kill you," he said pointedly, arching a well-groomed eyebrow, "you would already be dead."

'_Asit tal-eb._' Terror retreated to a dull, coiled lump in her stomach and the sustaining tenet forced her to ask, "Who are you?"

"We have never met." the elf said, teeth flashing as his mouth curved into a predator's smile. "It is instead a mutual acquaintance which brings us together. I suspect, however, his recollection of _you_ is, potentially, favorable. Varric Tethras?" Tallis couldn't conceal her reaction as he continued, "He has written a fascinating account of his time with the Champion of Kirkwall. I am curious–"

"I returned the scroll to my people." Hawke's dogged pursuit – to send this man after her! – sparked an ember of defiance, despite her precarious predicament. "The Arishok called him Basalit-an, but Hawke didn't care. How could I have trusted him? Thousands of innocent people would have suffered!"

Her aggravated outburst startled a laugh out of him. "Innocent? Now there is an interesting word, 'innocent.' How many men do you know who can claim to be truly innocent? But it is of no matter. You misunderstand my purpose." He settled comfortably into one of the battlement's crenels, resting a hand on the flattened merlon to his left. The elf's fingers splayed to grasp the stone's corner; he held himself with the practiced poise of a king on his throne. "How familiar are you with the Antivan Crows?"

His unwavering gaze moderated her reckless audacity. "What everyone knows," she hedged, mentally shying away from recognizing the elf – who he _must_ be – sitting across from her. He was no lackey for man of Kirkwall. "It's common knowledge."

"Is it?" His chuckle was low and intimate, inviting her to share the joke with him. "It is remarkable how _many_ misconceptions there are about the Crows. A skilled assassin is exorbitantly expensive; even the meanest of living conditions requires _some_ financial investment, once the child is purchased from the slave market. Then, there are the years of training. This assumes the boy – or girl – survives. So, if one were to attempt to hire… oh, let us pick an arbitrary number and say twenty-one men, shall we? As we are speaking purely in hypotheticals, I believe it would not be revealing too much to say that the cost of such would beggar a nation – were the contract even accepted. The Crows have rules, you see," he shook his head ruefully, "oh, so many rules."

"But you're not…" she mouthed the rest of her response, "a Crow. Not anymore." There were dozens of songs and stories, some of which went into explicit detail about Zevran Arainai, but his life as a Crow was behind him – or so the rumor went.

Either he'd read her lips or anticipated what she meant to say. "Indeed, I am _not_ a Crow. It is perhaps more accurate to say that I am _the_ Crow."

Zevran continued speaking, as if the revelation about his identity was inconsequential. "If every noble residing in Kirkwall were to pool their finances, an overt and costly ambush against the Champion might be accomplished, but my understanding is that – aside from the company he kept and his lack of social graces – he was well thought of. Mostly. And of course, we cannot overlook the fact that if such a contract were undertaken, Hawke would have perished. I know of only one man who escaped an attempt by a Crow, and Hawke is not even half as worthy. Or as skilled – and I am in the unique position of knowing the truth of that."

Soundlessly, the elf drummed his fingers on the chilly stone. "The cost of hiring a band of thugs, on the other hand, is next to nothing, yes? Unskilled ruffians who are promised a rich reward; they need only appear at the appointed hour. No one will miss these poor fellows enough to go to the captain of the city guard. One of the men has a slight accent; he may be from Llomerryn or Hasmal or Tallo, who can say? It is unfortunate that he is slain, along with the others, but necessary for the ruse to work." A sympathetic cluck of his tongue evidenced apparent sorrow over the fate of the unknown assailants.

"No doubt when the trap is sprung – fortuitously for Hawke – there is someone on hand to provide a ready explanation. The Champion may be grateful, if suspicious, but he too has a mercenary heart and is not above temptation." He slid smoothly from his seat. "Tell me, my dear. Do _you_ excel at resisting temptation?"

Tallis felt a rush of heat hit her cheeks, which earned her a wry smirk.

"I…" Her stomach gave a lurch and then settled itself. '_Was this how he swayed the Grey Wardens – with an empty promise of nothing in particular buoyed by his charm and self-confidence?'_ "What do you want?"

"Time to enjoy all I have worked so hard to achieve. The luxury of choosing our own adventures rather than having them thrust upon us. To indulge in the comforts and amenities that always accompanies the hero in good fireside tale: a soft bed, a hot bath and pleasant company. And, above all," he grinned, broad and wolfish, "a happy ending."

It didn't take her more than a moment to decide, but when she voiced her willingness, Zevran shook his head in curt reprimand. "And here I thought there might come a time where I could leave my past behind me. Infamy is its own reward, it seems. No," he emphasized, "while I am certain there must be someone, somewhere, who would find your offer appealing, I do not."

"But I don't have an–"

"What I want from you is," he leaned over, the whites of his eyes luminous in the moonlight, "your voice."

"My voice?"

Zevran straightened up, spun on his heel and began to pace. "In three months' time, our beloved King of Antiva, Mishal Al-Rajhi, will send an ambassador to Qunandar. It has been one hundred and fifty years since the Llomerryn Accord was signed, and the treaty was recently broken by the Arishok in Kirkwall. Understandably, Antiva is concerned. The Qunari continue to skirmish with her closest neighbor – Tevinter – and Par Vollen's landing point at Kont-Aar is very near her border. It all seems very unfriendly."

"There exists an obligation to put our minds at ease. You must be there to echo that sentiment when the time comes."

"Impossible." Tallis shook her head, which felt cottony and heavy. ""What makes you think anyone will listen to me?"

"You would rather stay here? Remain _maraas_?" The foreign word rolled off his tongue. She hated the truth in it. "Nominally, you are still _athlok_ and one day, if you are lucky, the Ben-Hassrath will remember you are here and summon you home – a very, very long time from now. Take comfort in the fact that you will still have your pride. Just do not think too long on what it has cost you."

The air was thick with water vapor, promising morning fog and dewy grass. Tallis tilted her head and looked upward, involuntarily focusing on the three stars Zevran pointed out earlier. '_A belt, a belt, a belt._' Her thoughts circled and returned to their start point. She wondered if he'd tell her why he was doing this, and said as much.

"War," he answered, "is not good for business, although you might believe otherwise. My Antiva remains decidedly neutral through much of the strife that affects all these other nations. Did she not, I would never have found my place within the ranks of the Crows. I might have lived and died a candle maker or some other equally banal occupation – and the world would have been a much duller place as a result."

"Still, war bleeds wallets. It spawns a hydra: supply trains, marching troops and layer upon layer of bureaucracy. Cut off a head and you are as likely to see two more spring forth from the first's bloody neck as you are to see an end altogether. It makes men think of their god and their country and this fervor causes them to do very stupid things. You kill a man; he is just a man. You kill a zealot; he becomes a martyr. No. War is not good for anyone, especially if I correctly anticipate the type of war it is going to be."

"But you'd make due."

"Hmm, yes, I suppose we would. But I grow weary of these constant disruptions to our lifestyle. If I can prevent it, and do some good in the process, there is no foreseeable downside. Have the Arishok call them all together and persuade the Triumvirate to agree. Yours will not be the only voice silently pleading my case. 'In the name of peace, the nations of Thedas must come together once more' our man will urge."

"Then why send me at all?"

The assassin's expression was open and guileless, his body framed by the slick, gray stone of the tower behind him, "Who better than you to return to its rightful place the Tome of Koslun?"

She choked on her sharp intake of breath, coughing, while he knelt down in front of her, smiling a perfect, straight-toothed smile. '_Not perfect_' some part of her mind noticed. The two front teeth on the bottom of his jaw turned slightly in towards one another, forming a 'v'. Imperfect, but he dazzled her; his breath smelled sweet, like liquorice root.

She didn't doubt for a moment he had the relic.

She thought she had plumbed the depth of her personal desires when she returned from her pursuit of Salit and that she had given herself over entirely to the wisdom of the Ariqun. She had gone, unquestioningly, to Orlais, to Val Foret and tried to accomplish… '_Nothing._' Given no charge, told only to go.

"Lies will be told, favors bartered, a special dispensation made but finally papers will be signed and handshakes exchanged. Honor dictates the Qunari will hold to their word on the sanctity of my homeland's borders. Ah, politics! Antiva will rest easier when this business is finished." He rose from his crouch, dusting off his hands as if he was elbow deep in flour. The creak of his leathers coincided with the faint voice she heard calling out the hour; she didn't catch the bellowed time.

"I won't kill anyone."

"Nor am I asking that you do so. Look at how much we are able to accomplish using only our mouths. By the end of it all, you will have the book in your hands to give to the Ariqun. That should merit your reinstatement, at the very least!"

She was his now – and he knew it. She supposed the renegade pirate used the book to repay her debt, just as Hawke told her; it had subsequently fallen into the hands of the Crows and now Zevran Arainai was using it as leverage – but for what?

Whatever he used to sedate her pulled at her consciousness; driven out of her bed by a restlessness she'd been unable to quiet, now all Tallis wanted to do was sleep. '_Sign._' Words whirled around in her head, seeking a key to the puzzle the assassin presented. '_Safe._' That there was a shred of truth in what he'd said she didn't doubt, but she didn't think the Antivan's interests lay with the goodwill he felt for his fellow man. '_Single._' He was too clever – too cunning – not to be manipulating the situation to his particular advantage. '_Sly._'

There was a mental click; she grasped at the pattern and her conclusion tumbled out, blurted from sudden recognition. "This is about him. Your _saarebas_."

The Qun chained their living weapons. Mages were, at best, unstable creatures full of destructive potential once unleashed. The last one she encountered tried to kill her and would have, if Cairn hadn't thrown himself in front of the spell, shielding her from its lethal force and saving her life at the cost of his own. A mage destroyed Kirkwall. She wouldn't be surprise if what the Chantry claimed was true – that Sandor Surana was a maleficar who practiced the darkest of arts, including blood magic. Underworld gossip loosely linked the two, the Fereldan Grey Warden and the Antivan assassin, but it was nothing anyone would swear to beyond lewd, drunken innuendo.

That the elven Warden had some hold over Zevran Arainai was unquestionable now, though. She saw the genial emotion drain out of the other elf: the muscles in his jaw clenched, his smile shrunk to a thin stretch of his lips over teeth, pulled into a vicious sneer and the hint of laughter echoed in his voice all sloughed away like a snake shedding its skin. What was left behind was a gelid mask, as close to physical perfection as it was possible to come, but terrible because of what was lost in the transformation.

She saw the ruthlessness that gained him his reputation as the deadliest assassin the Crows ever produced; cold eyes full of unmourned murder that never left him sleepless.

High above, the wind pushed clouds across the moon's face, casting subtle shadows as the wispy tendrils seemed to try to cling like brushed aside cobwebs. Tallis felt a bead of sweat roll down from behind her ear; it gained momentum before pausing at the arch of her neck and then turned aside to trickle past her shoulder and down her back.

Zevran hadn't answered her. Instead, he watched her and the longer their eye contact continued, the more she wanted to look away – but found she couldn't. A sound built in her throat which escaped in the form of a high-pitched whine, like the sound of a whipped dog brought to heel at her master's boots. Her fingers pressed into the gritty rock and the stone bit at her, scraping the slight hills and valleys of its gravely surface onto the skin of her palms and thighs as she tried to scramble backwards. She was already braced against the wall with nowhere to hide. A primal instinct chattered at her, urging her to cower – to submit.

His anger was a palpable thing, flaying her skin like a scourge when he spoke, a silken promise of violence. "If that slur passes your lips again, I will be forced to cut out your tongue. I will saw it out of your head and leave you a wriggling stump to mime and moan with. If it becomes a necessity, then you are no longer useful to me and there will be no reason for you to remain alive."

Tallis bit down on her lower lip. Her teeth cut through flesh, but it kept her from crying. The pain gave her something else to focus on because at this moment she did not want to _think_. Blood welled and dribbled out of the corner of her mouth; she struggled not to spit the coppery foulness out. She tried again to rise, but her drugged body betrayed her and she remained slumped down, seated and vulnerable but wishing that she could run and run and run and be free of this, her former life, and become a true Tal-Vashoth instead of teetering on the edge. If Cairn were still alive, he might have pushed her over long before now and she would never have ended up in an Orlesian lord's tower cringing away from death incarnate.

"I'll do what you want." Her answer rasped out like sandpaper.

"Of course you will."

His foot was on the first step. She could let him walk away. The fear she felt now would be a penitent's price for Tome of Koslun. But she had no pity in her heart any more for the _saarebas_. She had experienced firsthand what evil a mage could do and if Zevran was a thrall, even he did not deserve that fate.

"He will be the death of you."

The elf stopped and looked at her. He studied her face with the coolly impartial demeanor of a trained killer. Even after she dropped her gaze, she felt Zevran's intent stare with golden eyes the color of hourglass sand, measuring the remaining grains of her mortality. Her last words doomed her; she knew he was calculating her lifespan down to the day, the hour, the minute before he killed her. But not yet. Not now. Not today. Not while she was still useful.

"As he is my life, I consider the trade a fair one." With the soft whisper of a leather sole on stone, he stepped out of sight and was gone.

* * *

This was originally written for the fan "art" competition Bioware ran when they released Mark of the Assassin. Since they allowed fan fiction in at the zero hour, I felt obligated to produce something but I couldn't tell the story I wanted under the word limit. I found an appropriate cutoff point about halfway through and submitted it. Bioware didn't like this story any better than they liked Cameo (another fan fiction entry for a different contest Bioware ran). I remain eternally hopeful that one day the writing team will be in touch and tell me, "You are not terrible. In fact, we kind of like you."

Time passed and this sat on my hard drive. I wasn't motivated to finish it. I have a hate/hate relationship with Dragon Age 2 (with the exception of Legacy which would have been amazing to play with my Warden. It was the only worthwhile thing DA2 produced) and so I'm not very enthusiastic when it comes to writing about the events. However, when the World of Thedas, Volume 1 came out, there was some Muse!Zevran rage that a certain throwaway character got a mention when a far more important, pivotal and let's face it - ridiculously awesome - elf was completely ignored. So, Zevran and I finished and polished this... and here we are. Don't get me started about the MotA flaws. I think I demolish my biggest gripe in the first two pages. Maker, even thinking about it makes me twitchy. (deep breath) It's fine. We're good.

S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise). I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


End file.
